“Every dude in this bar is wearing a polo shirt.”

She scanned the bar. Which also happened to be in a basement, making it both really dark and a bit of a fire hazard.

“There does seem to be a disproportionate amount of polo shirts in here,” she said. She made the weighing scales motion with her hands, one hand up, the other down, up and down, up and down. “That should be a key factor in our assessment of bars: the ratio polo shirts to t-shirts. Disporportionate polo shirts. What do you think that means?”

“I think it means all these guys are east coast,” I said.

“Is that bad?”

“Yeah, dude. It means these boys come from breeding,” I continued. “They’ve been bred. It means they went to private schools for high school and then moved on to the Ivy League, or even worse private liberal arts schools in Maine, like Bowdoin.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

Girls from west of the Mississippi have not only never heard of colleges like Bowdoin, we think that they are gay. Just like polo shirts.

“I see,” she said. “These boys are pedigree.”

“Dude, exactly. Pedigree. And we don’t have any of that where we come from. The only Pedigree we have is dog food.”*

“These people are dog food,” she said.

“Yup, this is a total dog food bar,” I said. “Dude, I think my big ginormous purse is a turn-off. I think it’s scaring boys away.”

“What?”

“Look at that girl over there, she looks really cute, but then she has that ginormous purse, and that just says ‘I’m high maintenance,’ and that’s a problem for these dog food people. I think I need to leave my big purse at home, it’s definitely working against us.”

I decided to continue talking because this monologue seemed to be animating my mojo.

“Plus, I think we need to look really engaged, like we didn’t just come here to scam on boys, like we came here for the obvious ambience and each other’s engaging company. Like when I just laughed really huge and loud, that looked like we were really intriguing and didn’t give a fuck about the boys around us. That makes boys want you. When you don’t give a fuck about them.”

“Right,” she said. “Like when I did that weighing scales move with my hands, that looked really engaging. Boys looked at us and they didn’t know if we were talking about a math problem or a new algorithim or what. They would have to come and talk to us.”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s leave.”

“Yeah, I feel like we need to leave before some boy from Bowdoin tries to diss us because we aren’t dog food.”

“Do you need to use the ladies’ or anything?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back.”

I walked over to the ladies’, which was really a joint men’s and ladies’. Some dude in a pink polo shirt snarled at me.

“The line starts back here,” he said.

Oooooh. I bet he gets laid left and right. I decided I didn’t need to use the ladies’ that badly.

“Dude, let’s leave,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s leave.”

I guess we showed them.

*In my reteling of these events, the dialogue is sometimes punched up a bit to make me sound funnier than I really am. I never do this for her. That’s because it’s my blog. If you want the version where she’s funny, you have to go to her blog